Just Fine and Other Stories
by Tabithatibi
Summary: Hermione's last day at Hogwarts, Ginny on the first anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, George five years from the day his brother died, these are all days worth remembering, and worth recounting. These and other stories are to be found within this collection. I own nothing, all characters and locations taken from the Harry Potter books belong to J.K. Rowling. :) Please R&R!
1. Just Fine

A chill wind whispered over the lake, ruffling its inky waters; beneath the surface, a blurred and rippling shape stirred restlessly. Beyond the lake, the Forbidden Forest rustled, thousands of trees blending into a single entity which shivered in the cold of pre-dawn. The grass on the sloping lawns was wet with dew, and not a single being stirred in all of the ancient castle's grounds.

Not a single being, except a girl, who looked to be nearing twenty in age, and who was hurrying down over the slippery grass, her cloak billowing behind her. Her hair flew wild and bushy in the breeze, as unrestrained as her movement - as she neared the lake, she veered to the side and headed in a fast curve around its edge and towards the forest. Her name was Hermione Granger, and she was quite alone.

When she arrived under the gently creaking branches of an old beech tree, Hermione stopped and caught her breath. It was very early, early enough that not even Hagrid was up and about, tending to the animals in his care as he did every morning, as he had done for countless years past, and would continue to do for many, many more. Hermione, of course, had planned it this way. Hermione always had a plan, and today's had involved tiptoeing from her dormitory in the misty darkness before dawn and hurrying through the castle's winding corridors and stairways before she left the castle altogether and arrived here, at the old beech tree.

Her hand sliding across the roughened bark, scrawled with the initials of generations of students, Hermione sank to the ground, leaning against the trunk and tugging her cloak around her to keep out the chill. Across the water of the lake, Hogwarts stood dark and imposing against the sky, a chiselled silhouette standing firm against the ever-receding night. Hermione gazed fondly at the castle which was her home, the castle which had given her the opportunity to discover her true identity, which had given her a purpose and a sanctuary, and the best friends she had ever had. Somehow, after all this time, a 'thank you' seemed both in order, and strangely redundant; in a sense, Hermione knew she would never truly leave Hogwarts, just as surely as Hogwarts would never truly leave her.

And yet ... and yet she was leaving, this very night. All day long, there would be ceremonies and celebrations, awards and remembrances, and tonight, after seven years at Hogwarts, she and the others in her adopted year would depart the way they had arrived, sailing across the lake to the awaiting Hogwarts Express. Hermione was ready, had been ready for the world for a long, long time. Her year hiding in the wilderness whilst tirelessly fighting for the overthrow of Lord Voldemort had proven her capabilities like nothing before.

At the same time, however, Hermione had never felt so unprepared in her entire life. It was, she thought, one thing to be leaving Hogwarts, but quite another to be leaving without the friends she had made in her very first year. She would graduate and depart the castle, not alongside Harry and Ron, but Ginny and Luna, who, whilst they were very dear to her, were of course not the ones she had expected to share her last days of Hogwarts with. The whole year had felt like this; a bizarre twist of normality, her day to day routine much more like that of other students than it had been in previous years, with two girls as her constant companions instead of two boys, and an almost constant feeling of unreality, as if the whole year had been a dream, a curious relief from the year she had spent in the wild.

She had missed Harry and Ron desperately, though of course she had seen them every Hogsmeade weekend, weekends which were a blur of delight in Hermione's mind. Ron, full of a confidence she had watched grow over the past few months, would grin and joke and hug her, and Harry, smiling, would smile and and talk and Ginny would remark that he was turning into an awkward third wheel, upon which Ron would grin and push Harry towards Ginny, before the four of them (accompanied by a dreamy but cheerful Luna) made their way to the Three Broomsticks to talk and talk until it was nearly dark.

Hermione sighed, letting her breath hang in the air. Today would be strange without Harry and Ron, certainly. But it would have been strange even if they had been here, and Hermione, ever practical, put the matter out of her mind. Dawn was breaking, and she could see movement behind Hagrid's curtains. Clambering to her feet, Hermione took a smooth, flat stone from the pocket of her robes. She had found it weeks ago, and had used her wand to engrave a simple rune into its surface. Approaching the lake edge so that the water lapped not far from her feet, Hermione drew back her arm and flicked her wrist, flinging the stone to skim across the water. As the stone finally dropped beneath the rumpled surface of the lake, the ripples spreading far, far over the water, Hermione smiled. 'Thank you,' she whispered, her gaze taking in Hogwarts, the lake, the grounds. She smiled as she walked back up to the castle, and continued smiling throughout the day, more or less. Maybe it wasn't going to be how she had imagined it, but she was proud to have come this far, and she owed it to Hogwarts to continue with spirit right until the end.

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'Look, Hermione! Look at the stars!' Ginny clutched her friend's arm, her brown eyes wide and peppered with reflected shards of light.

Hermione let her own eyes travel across the night sky, before alighting on the castle once more. 'Look at Hogwarts ... ' she breathed in response. Even after all these years, she could never get over just hoe beautiful Hogwarts was, its many windows ablaze with light.

From her other side, Luna, pale and somehow ghostly in the moonlight, smiled vaguely. 'Look at the water,' she said, pointing to the ripples echoing back from their boat as they glided smoothly across the lake. The ripples created dancing spasms of light which moved eerily over the girls' faces.

Hermione, her throat tight with emotion, smiled at her companions. She was leaving Hogwarts, but it would always be her home, and she knew, with a burning certainty which coursed through her veins, that her future, whatever it might be, would always bring her back to her days brewing Polyjuice Potion and campaigning for elf rights. She was leaving her home, but her home might just be coming with her, and that was just fine.


	2. Make it Through

2nd of May, 1998 - Death, destruction, victory.

2nd of May, 1999 - Sadness, tranquility, unbearable.

That was how Ginny saw things. Plain and simple, black and white. She had always known her mind.

_A flash of brightest green streaked an inch from Ginny's chest, and she tripped, falling over rubble and the heavy bodies of her fallen comrades. She cried out, then, in pain and anger, and lashed ruthlessly with her wand, fiery orange sparks flying in all directions. A man tripped over her, cursing as he fell, and Ginny scrambled backwards and away from him, not knowing if he was friend or foe. This was chaos._

Next to her sat Harry, his face averted, gazing out over the lake as if lost in thought. They had asked him to speak, but Harry hadn't known what to say. In the end, he'd simply raised a glass to all those who had given their lives in the war against Voldemort, and no one had asked why he wouldn't say more. Ginny saw their looks, though. Some people - those who didn't understand, who hadn't been there, in the heat of the battle - looked askance at the Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, and Ginny knew they were wondering why he didn't have a whole speech prepared. These people were in a minority, though, Ginny knew. Everyone else bowed their heads, or nodded, and many began to quietly cry, tears rolling down cheeks and splashing without a sound to the ground.

_She lurched unsteadily to her feet, her eyes screwed up against a storm of dust which rose as a rumble announced the partial collapse of a wall to her left, backing away, Ginny heard a horrible clicking and scraping, a light, muttering sound which sent a shiver down her spine - whirling around, Ginny yelled 'Impedimenta!' The Acromantula slowed mid leap and Ginny hared away, crashing into walls and ducking to avoid curses as she went._

_'I'll make it through the night,' she thought with a numb panic, 'We all will. We'll all make it through the night.'_

Ginny gripped Harry's hand in hers, pressing hard.

'We'll make it through today,' she murmured, reassuring herself as much as Harry, who said nothing, only squeezed her hand in return.

The day was warm and slightly heady, perfumed with the scent of a nearby flutterby bush, which rustled and waved lazily, despite there being no breeze at all. Ginny found it utterly unbearable. The heat, the murmuring silence, the ghastly drone of the same tufty-haired individual who had spoken at Dumbledore's funeral, and at Bill and Fleur's wedding; it was all too much, all too still and calm. Ginny's hand twitched in Harry's. She felt claustrophobic, almost sick.

_A body, a curse, a fallen balustrade, shattered glass and more bodies. So much death passed in a blur, and Ginny grew old and tired during that night. They all did, every last one of them._

As soon as the little old man stopped speaking, Ginny leaped to her feet and pushed her way out of the many rows of chairs which had been set up by the lake. The tranquility of the afternoon bore down upon her, and she fled into the outmost trees of the Forbidden Forest. Harry would be OK, she knew. He would probably join her within moments. Pressing herself back against the trunk of a tall tree, she closed her eyes. So much pain, so much suffering. A year on and the wounds felt fresh and raw.

A footstep sounded, cracking a twig on the forest floor. Ginny blinked open her eyes and stared in hazy confusion, hope sparking where hope should not have blossomed.

'Fred?'

_And then it was another body, but this one familiar, red hair and a crooked grin, the twin of the man now sobbing beside her, and she was in shock and the world drained away into nothing, her brother the only thing that had ever, would ever matter. And so hopelessly gone._

A moment later she realised her mistake.

'Oh my God, George, I'm so sorry, I - '

'No, it's OK.' George looked wan and empty, a thin smile on his face. 'I'm glad you can still see some of him in me. Most days I can't find him, you see. I wish - '

George seemed to crumple in on himself, his whole body wracked with sobs. Ginny hurried forward, hugging him fiercely and proudly, her heart breaking all over again.

'I see him in you every day,' she said forcefully, 'you make me proud to be your sister and you make me happy to be alive. We'll make it though this, George. I promise, we'll make it through the day.'


	3. The Boy and the Grave

Thanks for the reviews! Please keep them coming, and I hope you like this chapter ... :)

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Fred Gideon Weasley

1st April 1978 - 2nd May 1998

Loving son, brother, prankster and war hero.

A twin one day to be reunited with his other half.

The magic of laughter knows no bounds.

George knew the words off by heart, yet they still sounded stuffy and wrong to him, too long-winded by half. They were all true - though the words 'loving' and 'war hero' seemed an odd fit, even odder than 'loving' and 'prankster' - but the grave stone looked crowded whereas Fred had always been straightforward. But his mum had been crying, and everyone had wanted to contribute something, and this had been the result. George could hardly resent his family's desire to each pay their tribute to Fred, so he hadn't said a thing, only asked that it should be mentioned that Fred is - was - a twin.

Five years from the day George had lost his brother, and, in doing so, half his life, everything seemed outwardly perfect. He ran a successful and wildly popular joke shop, he had a beautiful wife and a wonderful son; his second child was soon to be born and the Wizarding community was at peace. Anyone who didn't know George would have thought his life could not be better. But anyone who did know George would know that he set aside twenty widely spaced days each year to be with his brother, and that meant twenty days of sitting on a grave, talking to a gravestone. Twenty days for the twenty years he had spent with his brother. Such an impossibly short time.

Out of all those days, the worst was always this day, the 2nd of May. Sometimes, he still thought it was all a mistake. Sometimes, he wondered why Fred was late to work, why he hadn't yet walked though the door. Sometimes, when someone said they had good news, he still expected them to say that Fred was coming home. Sometimes, he still cried at night. But mostly he just felt lost, his sadness too unbearable to examine too closely. Except on days like this.

George shuddered, an involuntary spasm passing down his spine.

_Tip-toe, tip-toe, _

_Someone's walking on your grave._

_Tip-toe, tip-toe,_

_Watch your tread, my dear,_

_Tip-toe, tip-toe,_

_ You're stepping on my bones._

George stared, motionless and empty, at the ground before him. Wild flowers grew here, all strewn amongst each other. Life from death, they were proof of salvation. George grimaced. He hated it when his thoughts grew so morbid, but on days like this, he couldn't always help it. He never used to think this way.

'Hey, Fred,' he murmured, his hand trailing through the grass and petals which grew before him. 'Want to hear a joke?'

Silence, everlasting silence.

'I'll take that as a yes, and assume you're too rude to answer,' continued George, his one-sided dialogue a rhythmic pattern he would never grow used to. What on earth was he to do when he didn't have anyone to start or finish his sentences?

'I walk into a bar. The barman's telling a story, but no one wants to listen, so he turns to me and says, 'Lend me an ear.' 'Sorry,' I say, 'I've only got the one, I'd prefer to keep it.''

A slight breeze blew up, stirring the drying grass and brushing it together in a sad melody of whispers. George sighed and let out a lonely chuckle, 'I know, I know,' he said softly, 'pathetic. I still haven't found the perfect ear joke.'

For a time he sat in silence, listening to the hum of insects in the undergrowth, the warble of a far off bird. Reaching up to brush back his hair, he was surprised to find himself crying. Quite silently, unobtrusively, but still the tears were real and there and every one caused him more pain.

'Miss you, Freddie,' murmured the boy who sat on the grave.

A cloudy sky. A rippling wind, lazy bird calls. A boy sitting with his brother.


	4. Bluebell Flames

Hello! Thank you for all the lovely and helpful reviews! :D It's really nice to hear from anyone who reads my stories, so please continue to review if you like this, and I am sorry for the pause between the last chapter and this one, I've had quite a busy few weeks ...

In response to a guest review I received for the first chapter - firstly, thanks for your kind words. :) I appreciate hearing constructive criticism as well, so it was interesting reading what you had to say. I know that my style can be quite florid, but I'm afraid that probably won't change; I simply love detail, and my writing is probably influenced by the fact that I do a lot of art and always try to include lots of detail in that ... In regards to what you said about me/Hermione/Hogwarts, I have three major thoughts: firstly, I'm actually rather flattered that you could see how much I love Hogwarts simply by reading that - even if that's not a good thing in literary terms, it just makes me happy to know that my passion for this most magical of places really came through in my writing. Secondly, I do feel that I _was _putting myself in Hermione's shoes, and it's nice of you to say that I 'may be adept' at that - I always feel that's something that's really, really important in fanfiction - keeping the characters true to themselves. I do also appreciate, however, what you said about me perhaps envisaging myself as Hermione, and here it gets a little tricky. I think that I am good at putting myself in characters' shoes, and particularly Hermione's, because she is my favourite character of all, so, while it may take time writing about her, as I want to get it just right, I also find it easy to slip into her mindset simply because I spend so much of my time asking myself in day to day situations 'what would Hermione do?' and because I've always felt a great connection to Hermione: I see myself in her and vice versa. However, that can also lead to what you said about 'envisaging myself as Hermione' which to a certain extent could be true in that as I feel such a connection to her, it's almost impossible to separate that connection when I'm writing about her. Then again, I do always make it clear in my mind that I'm writing about Hermione, not me; I love Hermione and wouldn't ever want to sacrifice her personality for the sake of putting myself in the story. However, I think any writer puts a bit of themselves into their characters, and the same is true I think, of readers/fan-fiction writers: I see myself in Hermione therefore, whilst I may write her in character, 'my' in character may be slightly different from someone else's 'in character' Hermione, who may in turn contain some of that reader/author's DNA.

In short, I think that I was writing something of a dual piece: all the things Hermione felt, I felt. But I also firmly believe that they are things Hermione _would _have felt, so I don't think I'm being untrue to her character. And I definitely picture her as very different to me, though I always wanted to look more like her - sometimes people have told me I do look like her which makes me **_SO_ **happy, but I'm going off on a tangent now. :P Thank you very much for your review, anyway, it clearly gave me a lot to think about! Sorry for the insanely long reply.

Enjoy!

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Bluebell Flames

An odd little girl.

A strange child.

Bright, but so _peculiar._

These were the words which had followed Hermione all her life, snapping at her heels like so many vicious dogs. What she had done to deserve them, she had no idea. So it was true that unusual, often mysterious things did have a way of _happening _around Hermione, and maybe no one could explain them - but then, she couldn't explain them either, so it could hardly be her fault, now, could it?

Books had always been her comfort. Books. Solid, reliable, trustworthy books. You couldn't be taunted by a book. A book would never desert you. And there was so much to be learned from them, so much to fill the hours she spent alone in her room, in her garden, even at school, where she excelled almost enough to dispel her fears and insecurities. Almost.

Hermione never really knew when the oddities had started to occur. She couldn't remember a time when they _hadn't, _despite the hours she used to spend trying to strain her memory further back than it could reasonably stretch.

'Mummy,' she used to say, her small face serious, 'can _you _explain me?'

But no one ever could. So, Hermione had stopped asking, and started reading. The more she read, the more she learnt, the more confused she became. Nothing, anywhere, in any of her books, explained why she could make the bath water hotter or colder to suit her mood. Nor did she ever find an explanation for the way her hair seemed to crackle when she got upset, or why her lights turned on and off in her room when she wanted them to. The icing on her birthday cake which changed colour, the grass which grew fresh and new in minutes so it would have to be cut again - she could never find an explanation for any of it. But over time, she learnt to accept it more and more, and eased happily into a way of life which was comforting and familiar, if somewhat lonely: books, books, family, and books.

That is, until the day the doorbell rang.

Most people wouldn't have found it strange for their doorbell to ring. After all, why have it if you don't expect anyone to use it? The thing was, the Grangers _didn't_ have a doorbell. They used to have one, but it had broken when Hermione was three, after she fell off her swing and grazed her elbow; they never had got round to replacing it.

So it was very strange indeed when the Grangers were interrupted during breakfast one day when Hermione was eleven years old by the merry chiming of a doorbell.

Mr and Mrs Granger looked at each other, perplexed. Hermione looked at both of them, and instantly filed this away as another odd incident she would have to accept and maybe, just maybe, one day explain.

The doorbell rang again.

'Well. I suppose we'd better see who's ... who's at the door,' said Mr Granger finally, still looking puzzled. He got to his feet and left the kitchen, followed by his wife and child, both of whom were curious to see who was ringing the non-existent doorbell.

Mr Granger swung open the front door to reveal a tall and somewhat severe looking woman wearing an almost indecent amount of tartan and holding a thick creamy envelope in one hand.

'Good morning,' she said crisply. 'I take it this is the home of Miss Hermione Granger?'

Hermione's eyes widened.

'That's me,' she said quickly, side-stepping her parents and gazing up at the woman with a great deal of interest, 'I'm Hermione Granger, and I'm very pleased to meet you - how did you know my name? I hope you don't mind my asking, but it seems most peculiar, seeing as I don' t know that many people and none of them would come looking for me at my house. Are you from the library? I don't think any of my books are overdue, I checked them last night. Did I leave my library card there? I think I have it upstairs, I can check if you like, just in case, but I don't think I'd have made a mistake, I generally don't. I mean ... ' Hermione blushed and trailed off.

The woman gave her a brief, beady look and nodded, but didn't reply to her torrent of questions.

'Good. I've taken the liberty of fixing your doorbell, by the way.'

'But ... we don't have a doorbell.' Hermione's father was looking at the woman, completely nonplussed.

'Really? I think you'll find you do, Mr Granger. May I come inside?'

* * *

It hadn't taken Hermione nearly as long as one might have expected to accept the idea of magic being _real_. She had always been a fiercely logical person, and whilst under normal circumstances she might have found the things which the woman - a Professor McGonagall - was saying unbelievable, perhaps even ridiculous, Hermione was not under normal circumstances. She hadn't been under _normal circumstances_ her entire life, and while she was astounded, rendered speechless for some time (a feat in itself; Hermione had a tendency to talk a lot and fast about anything that came her way) and while of course she had never once suspected _magic _to be the cause of her more peculiar abilities, Hermione nevertheless adapted to the idea quite quickly. Professor McGonagall demonstrated a basic flame conjuring charm (Hermione was delighted to find she could even _touch _the dancing bluebell flames, and resolved to learn the spell as soon as she could), handed Hermione her letter, answered a torrent of questions from Hermione and a good deal from her parents, and that was that. Hermione had seen, and so she believed. In any case, the witch seemed so formal, so straight-backed and proper that Hermione hardly dared to disagree with her. Professor McGonagall would return within the month in order to assist the Grangers in navigating their way around wizarding London, and she would see Hermione at Hogwarts on the first of September.

Hermione watched the witch walk a few paces from their house before she spun on the spot and, with a crack that made Hermione jump, vanished into the morning air.

All day Hermione chattered on to her parents, who seemed to be having much more difficulty wrapping their heads around the revelation that their straight-laced, sensible, prim little daughter was a witch than she herself was, and who spent most of the day looking bemused and out of sorts.

That night, Hermione read her Hogwarts Acceptance Letter. She read it over and over, trying to inscribe the words on to her retinas. This, then, was the answer she had been looking for her whole life. She was a witch. Her brain told her firmly that witches didn't exist, that she was being silly - but Hermione remembered the bluebell flames. And while she was delighted, and eager to be among others like her, a worm of nervous foreboding was creeping deep inside her. She knew nothing of the wizarding world, nothing at all. But she could learn. That was what Hermione always did. And she felt sure that if she learnt enough, no one would ever think her odd or strange or peculiar ever again. Hermione's last, sleepy thought before she closed her eyes was that she hoped they had a good bookshop in this 'Diagon Alley' that Professor Mcgonagall had mentioned.

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Hope you liked it. :) Just a little piece about Hermione's life before Hogwarts ... A bit lighter than previous chapters, though still quite sad in its way, I think.

Next chapter: Sirius immediately after he escapes from Azkaban.

Tabs ~


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